For Better or For Worse
by somedayangeline
Summary: Young Arnold Rimmer's family life is about to get (even) more complicated.
1. Chapter 1

Mrs. Rimmer is having One Of Those Days.

She's just received very bad news indeed, bad in the sense that it was about to chuck a stone into the nicely symmetrical garden of her family's existence. Not to mention that it's the day before her four sons head back to school, the worst possible timing.

And now this:

"You can't quit, Mrs. Maitland, we need you too much. The boys..."

"Are out of control. Which I've tried to tell you before, but...

Mrs. Rimmer speaks over this; she really doesn't have the time to stand here arguing with anyone, much less her housekeeper. "I know having to deal with their little friends coming over during the holiday must have been quite..."

At this point, the housekeeper does some interrupting of her own. "It's not their friends."

"Well," Mrs. Rimmer says automatically, "I'll have a talk with Arnold."

"It's not Arnold either. Arnold is the least of it."

Mrs. Rimmer manages to control her temper, reminding herself that she needs to leave soon, and she can't, as much as she wants, spend any time defending her three precious other boys. She has to do something - she really can't cope with losing yet another housekeeper, especially with the news she's just gotten.

"Mrs. Maitland, as you know, the boys start back at school tomorrow, and I apologize if they've been rather...high spirited lately..."

"Well, that's one way to put it," the housekeeper comments dryly.

"...but my brother-in-law and his wife just passed away, and we have to take their daughter. She's Arnold's age; they'll be in the same class, and I know she won't be any trouble."

"The poor lamb. I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Rimmer, but..."

"She'll be on the same schedule as Arnold, too - remember, first thing when he gets home, he's to sit down and do all his homework before anything else. We don't want a repeat of last term."

The housekeeper frowns. "Mrs. Rimmer, if I may speak freely, perhaps your son would have done better if he wasn't being bullied."

"By his classmates, I know, it's an ongoing - issue, but what do you expect me to do about it? Say I go in and make a fuss, and the children in question are disciplined, who do you think they'll take it out on later?"

"Actually, I meant by his brothers." The housekeeper's tone is grimly patient. She knows where this is heading.

"Now that's absurd. All siblings bicker. They're simply a little...boisterous. Anyway, I'll speak to them about behaving better in the future, and I'm more than happy to make the addition of an extra child worth your while. Though I really don't expect her to be any trouble."

"I don't want to leave you in the lurch," the housekeeper lies. "And you're right, girls tend to be easier. At any age."

Yes, Mrs. Rimmer thinks, which is why she had planned on having one after she'd given her husband a son and heir. But somehow things had gotten bollixed up, and now she has four "high spirited" boys.

"Why don't we discuss your salary later when there's more time. I really must leave to get the girl, and I'll be taking Arnold, so that will be one less child for you to worry about today."

"That's satisfactory, but as I told you before, Arnold is not..."

But Mrs. Rimmer is already marching away, calling for her youngest son to come right this minute, no dawdling, they have to go, and she doesn't hear the final words.

"...the problem."

* * *

His mother's high heels stab the corridor as she propels him by the arm down a series of lookalike halls. Arnold Rimmer has no idea where they're going, but his mother, as usual, doesn't have that problem. She knows exactly what their destination is and doubtless, the most convenient way to reach it.

It smells nasty in here, and the fact that he can't see or hear any kids at all is spooky. But it's better than being home trying to avoid his brothers and their friends. And it's definitely better than being back in school.

"Why do they call it a Home?" he asks.

"Because it sounds a lot nicer than calling it an orphanage," his mother replies shortly. But at least she gives him an answer.

All this does is raise more questions. Such as why didn't my parents ever tell me that I had a cousin? Or an uncle? Why aren't there any photos?

"What's my cousin's name?" he asks, choosing what he hopes is the least inflammatory of his questions.

"Aurora. She's just your age, and remember, I'll be counting on you to help her settle in, especially at school where she won't know anybody."

"I will, but she won't like Mr. Truitt."

'Now what's wrong with Mr. Truitt? You've never even had him before." His mother's voice sounds like she's losing patience, but this time he has a good answer.

"No, but John did, remember?" He braces himself for his mother's indignation, though for once it won't be directed at him.

"Oh. That ghastly man." His mother grimaces. "He had the nerve to accuse John of cheating. Cheating!"

But maybe he really did cheat, Arnold thinks, though he knows better than to say this out loud.

"Anyway, your job this term is to get those marks up. Don't make me sorry I went and pulled strings with the headmaster not to keep you back."

"I won't." At least, I'll try, he thinks, but that never seems to make any difference. Try was a term right up there with "focus," something to vow to do but never actually accomplish.

"What do her parents do, I mean did?" he asks, hoping to change the subject.

"Her mother is...was in the Space Corps. I believe her father had some job with a pharmaceutical company at one point."

"But why haven't we met them?"

"Because your father had a falling out with her father."

"Why'd they have a falling out?"

"I've no idea," his mother says in a tone that indicates she knows perfectly well but isn't going to reveal anything.

"Why are we taking her? Aurora?" Again that seems one of the least dangerous questions, though with his mother, you never knew.

"Because no one else will," his mother snaps.

Well, Arnold thinks, that clears that up.

"But if anyone asks," she says, fixing him with the gimlet gaze he knows all-too-well, "tell them that it's the least we can do." She halts before a door and raps smartly against it. "We're here. Let's get this over with as soon as possible."

End


	2. Chapter 2

_Aurora_

"Aurora, they're here."

The girl bites her lip. She'd dreaded coming here, picturing a Dickensian kind of place, but the reality is that it's not all that bad. As long as you follow the rules, that is.

The matron of the Home touches her shoulder lightly. "Got your things together. Good."

She braces herself as the formidably stylish woman crushes her against her bosom in an embrace. "Darling, it's so nice to finally meet you. We'll be home in a jiff, and then you can relax. This is my son, Arnold."

Her cousin echoes his mother's greeting, but to her relief, avoids the hug. When she'd been told that the uncle and aunt she barely remembered having also have four sons, it had seemed exotic at the time, but now it just seems overwhelming.

"Did you enjoy your holiday, Arnold?" Matron is asking, in the tones used when an adult is Taking An Active Interest in a someone much younger.

"Er...I suppose."

Odd, Aurora thought, _unless your parents are unexpectedly killed, how can you have a bad holiday?_

"But," she continues, "I expect you'll be glad to be back at school to catch up with your friends?"

"Well..."

"I'm afraid we really must be going," Mrs. Rimmer interrupts. "Thank you for all you've done."

"Of course. I'm so pleased we could finally turn up someone to take her. Not that Aurora's been any trouble."

Aurora wonders what trouble she could have possibly caused in this place, but can't think of a thing. Then somehow, she's following her aunt and cousin down the corridor, even though at this point, she'd almost have preferred to stay. The prospect of acquiring four siblings at once is daunting, but at least, they hadn't all shown up.

"Good luck, dear," Matron adds, as they head for the exit.

 _I may just need it_ , Aurora thinks.

At first, as they approach the car, she thinks she spots her uncle sitting in the driver's side, but that turns out to be wrong - it's the chauffeur. Mrs. Rimmer sits up front next to him, while she sits next to Arnold in the back and since she's got a captive audience, tries to pump him for information.

"So, we're in the same class?" she begins. "Is our teacher nice?"

"No."

"You're not keen on him then?" she continues, struggling for some or any common ground.

"No."

Great. Obviously, he hates her. That means he probably won't want to even introduce her to any of his friends when they go, not that would help much since presumably they're all boys. But she plows ahead anyway.

"Don't you... _like_ school?" she says. It's not that she likes school all that much, but on the other hand, she's never _disliked_ it.

"No."

"Honestly, Arnold," her aunt interrupts, "there's no need for that kind of attitude. Io House is an excellent school. His brothers all adore it," she informs Aurora, "and Arnold would, too, if he made the effort." She pauses, "Here we are."

Their house - no, their estate is huge and as they approach, she spots a figure in the distance, poking some implement into the soil. Her uncle? Maybe he came home early on purpose to see her.

"Who's that?"

"That's the gardener," her cousin tells her.

She nods. _Just how many servants do these people have?_

"Do you have a butler, too?" she blurts.

Her aunt turns around and informs her that they do _not_ , while her cousin mumbles yet another no.

Aurora sighs inwardly. Strike two. But at least she won't have to share a room.

The rest of the day is a blur of introductions, unpacking and plans for the next day, which sound every bit as exhausting. Finally, it's time for bed, but she can't sleep. She's lying there, exhausted but still not able to drift off, when Arnold steps into the room. Now what?

He presses something into her arms. "Here, You can borrow him tonight, if you want."

"Thanks," she whispers, as she cradles the stuffed dog.

Her cousin melts back into the darkness and disappears as silently as he came.

Maybe he doesn't hate her, after all.

* * *

 _Mrs. Rimmer_

Among their many virtues, none of her boys are picky eaters - though it may be just that their father has made sure of that by insisting on frequent pop quizzes before they're allowed to have dinner, but her niece seems cut of a different mold: she's consumed only a quarter of her food so far. Not to mention that she's a black hole of silence amid all the noise and clatter, though perhaps it's only from grief.

"Aurora," she says finally, "you really need to eat more. You have a busy week ahead." She did sympathize with the girl, after all, she'd just lost her parents, but at the same time, she couldn't help but feel a stab of irritation. It would be so much more peaceful when they were all old enough to board.

"I'll take it if she..."

"Frank, let Aurora eat her own dinner, please."

Her husband, of course, is no help whatsoever in any of this; he just sits there chewing, and staring at his niece in a fashion she's all-too-familiar with. She'll have to sound him out later. Surely, he's not already considering what she thinks he is.

"Mrs. Maitland threatened to quit this afternoon," Mrs. Rimmer begins, after the dishes are cleared, and they're sitting in the study.

"Again?" Her husband frowns.

"No, this is actually the first time. You're thinking of the one before her."

"Well, I hope you talked her out of it. Did she give a reason?"

Eye roll. "She said the older boys are out of control, and that they're bullying Arnold."

"That's absurd! All siblings bick..."

At which point, Mrs. Rimmer experiences strong deja vu.

"Anyway," she continues, "I gave her a raise, so hopefully, we'll hear no more of this."

"Whatever it takes. Good help is hard to find these days."

 _That's certainly true,_ Mrs. Rimmer thinks. " Anyway, tomorrow, I thought I'd take Aurora shopping. Her clothes are only fit for the bin. Then she'll start school the day after tomorrow. It's handy that Arnold can at least show her around at school."

"It's certainly a nice coincidence that they're the same age. Their birthdays are only a week apart, too. But her IQ is prob..."

Warning bells go off; they've been together long enough so that she knows the signs. "You're not thinking of performing experiments on a grieving eight-year-old, I hope," she says tartly.

"Of course not," her husband says horrified, "What kind of monster do you think I am?"

Mrs. Rimmer doesn't respond.

"I'll wait until she's feeling better."

"Good. She has enough to deal with already."

After a few moments, her husband speaks again. "By the way, is Aurora going to take piano lessons, too?"

She winces. "Absolutely not. My nerves can't take two untrained children banging away on the piano. I'll find her a quieter hobby, if she doesn't already have one."

"Still, you'll have them both on the same studying schedule after school? I don't want Arnold fooling around until he completes every last bit of homework. But the girl's supposed to be bright like her parents. Maybe she can tutor our son, once she settles in. He needs all the help he can get."

"He certainly does."

But what sort of help, Mrs. Rimmer wonders, does her niece need?

End


	3. Chapter 3

_Arnold_

Arnold J. Rimmer hangs his head over the ornamental pond his mother has just had installed in the garden and wonders what it might be like to be a fish.

Not too cushy an existence, he decides after a moment of thought. After all, fish didn't have to go to school. They didn't have to come home directly after school only to have to do more work. They didn't have to do anything except laze around all day. They got their food thrown in on a regular basis, and they didn't have to answer complex queries just to get a measly crumb or two.

Still, it would depend on whether or not you had a human brain. If you did, half a day in a piddling little pond like that, and you'd be bored stiff.

But if instead you had the brain of a fish, it wouldn't be too bad. Fish seem to lead a drama-free life, at least these ones seem to get along all right, but he has no idea if any of them are related.

He glances up to the upper floor of the house where he assumes his cousin is a) unpacking, b) being grilled by his mother as to the state of her clothes, or c) missing her parents. Probably a combination of all three.

He knows exactly why his father was silent at the dinner table, and why he looks at Aurora like that. He doesn't see her as a companion for his sons; he probably doesn't even pity her for what she's lost. Instead he sees her as competition.

With his brothers, it's simple. If he loses against them, it's because they're taller. Stronger. Older. Expecting him to beat them in anything is just not fair.

But his cousin is approximately his size and exactly his age, so there goes that excuse.

Smeg.

 _Smegsmegsmeggingsmeg..._

He punches the water below, shattering his reflection and sending the fish darting to the other side. He removes his dripping hand and startles when he hears someone approach behind him.

"You all right, Arnie?"

There's only one person who ever calls him that. Dennis, their gardener, who's probably popped by to check on the fish. He blushes, embarrassed to be caught acting childish.

"Er..."

"What's on your mind tonight?" the older man asks gently.

"My cousin, Aurora's, here now, did you know?"

"I did. Saw her arrive. Shame about her parents."

It is a shame, but it still takes Arnold by surprise to hear this. He's so used to being the most miserable person in the Rimmer household that it feels surreal to suddenly be usurped.

"I never even knew about her until today," he says. "It's odd that we might never have gotten a chance to meet otherwise."

"School starts tomorrow, doesn't it." It's not a question, but Arnold winces and nods anyway.

"Think your cousin will make out all right?"

"I don't know. I can't possibly see how anyone could like Mr. Truitt. Not even John got along with him when he had him."

The gardener chuckles. "Well, sometimes you learn more from the ones you don't like, strange as that may sound."

Arnold nods; he isn't sure he agrees, but this way of looking at it is far preferable to his mother's insistence on being chipper.

He stares down at the water, at his rippling reflection, not sure what to say.

"You know, your cousin is going to be depending on you to help her settle in. She's going to need all the friends she can..."

Unlike his mother, the gardener doesn't make the words sound like an order or threat. Arnold realizes that he's trying to make him feel better, but it's not helping any. The truth is he's dreading school, and although he won't voice this aloud, he can't help but wonder if he'll make things worse for Aurora by being so unpopular.

"I have a feeling you just might surprise yourself," the gardener adds, giving him a pat on the shoulder before departing, and Arnold wishes with all his heart that this time it will be true.

Once again alone, he sits in the twilight, his fingers lightly spanking the water. He's not heartless; however, sorry he feels for himself, he knows Aurora is hurting, too. He doesn't need any grownups to tell him that he should be nice to her; he's perfectly capable of figuring that out for himself.

 _What the smeg,_ he decides, _I'll do it._

* * *

 _Aurora_

When she first wakes the next morning, she experiences temporary panic, upon realizing that she's not in a room with four other girls roughly her age, but alone in someone's private room. She listens hard, but there's just silence. Then it all comes flooding back - where she is and why. She feels something scratchy next to her arm and remembers that it's the stuffed dog her cousin gave her last night.

So this is still real, and there's a rap on the door to prove it. She starts to push back the covers, as her aunt enters the room. "Morning," she says groggily; wishing that she wasn't still in pajamas faded two shades past their original color with her hair as yet un-brushed. This is _not_ the way she would have preferred to greet her aunt.

"You're up then? Good. The boys are downstairs having breakfast - they'll need to catch the school shuttle soon, but I wanted to have a look through your clothes. I'd like you to wear something nice today, as we'll be going out."

Aurora blushes; her aunt is trying to be kind, but she can tell quite clearly that her wardrobe is hardly up to snuff. She goes over to the closet and picks the least objectionable outfit she can find - a dress she wore to a family friend's wedding, that she isn't even sure where it came from, and is so fancy, she's only had occasion to wear it once.

"Yes, that will do nicely," her aunt says. "We'll need to go shopping today and get you a few more things. How does that sound?"

 _I thought the purpose of clothes shopping was that you needed ones to begin with,_ she thinks, but this is hardly the time and place to argue.

"Great," she replies. "Fine."

"I expect this is all quite a change for you," her aunt says gently. "But your uncle and I are glad you're here. And so are the boys - they may be a tad boisterous, but they don't bite."

Aurora nods, wishing she could somehow converse as cheerfully as her aunt.

"And I expect you'll like school fine once you've settled in and made friends. I hear you're a bright girl, so I expect you'll do well."

What can she say to that that won't sound conceited? She settles for another nod.

"We should be able to pick up your uniform this afternoon, too, so that's set. Now, you'll start tomorrow."

Aurora moves over to the window where down below she can see her cousins emerging with their school things. She can't help but notice that while the older three boys seem unfazed at their destination ahead, Arnold trudges along with a gait that would put a condemned prisoner on his way to be guillotined to shame.

Her aunt sighs, as if she, too, is thinking this.

"Please, don't let your cousin's negative attitude prejudice you in advance against what is really an exceptional school," her aunt concludes. "He can be rather immature at times."

"Of course not," Aurora says, but she isn't at all sure she agrees.

"After breakfast, I'd like to go out directly, if you think you can be ready," her aunt says.

The last time Aurora went clothes shopping, it was with her mother, and it was exceedingly quick; her mother prefers - preferred - not to linger if it wasn't necessary. She has a feeling that shopping with her aunt will be different. Much different. But not necessarily unwelcome.

"Yes," she agrees. "I'll be ready.

End


	4. Chapter 4

_Mrs. Rimmer_

Some days go by so slowly, they practically crawl. Others, like today, go by lickety split. Mrs. Rimmer has had a thoroughly productive morning and having checked off everything else on her list, now phones the school.

"Hello, Mrs. Rimmer, how are you today?"

"Fine." She braces herself. She doesn't want to grovel, but some thanks is due."I just wanted to say that I appreciate you giving my son a second chance. And I guarantee you that you'll see a change in Arnold this term. He's going to do every last bit of work assigned. No excuses."

 _Even if his father and I have to stand over him with a whip. Figuratively, of course._

"I'm sure he will," the headmaster says with a remarkably convincing show of sincerity.

 _Well,_ Mrs. Rimmer thinks, _that makes one of us._

"Arnold's got the aptitude; he just needs to focus. According to his teachers, he tends to wander around school in a daze."

Mrs. Rimmer forces a laugh. "Believe me, he does that at home, too."

 _Pulling the strings_ , what a bland but handy euphemism for what making sure Arnold progresses with the rest of his classmates. If he's teased now, she can only imagine how they'd treat him if he was kept down. Not that either her son or her husband will ever find out just what that entailed. Well, it's best not to dwell on it anymore. She clears her throat.

"Actually, I'm calling about my niece, Aurora. Have the records from her last school arrived yet?"

"Yes, everything seems to be in order. No academic or behavior problems, I see. Will that be her permanent address?"

"It will, yes."

"Then we'll look forward to seeing her tomorrow."

Mrs. Rimmer hangs up. Without the boys in the house, it's as silent as a church or a tomb; only the low whir of their state-of-the-art appliances stirs the silence. Though she spent most of their holiday longing for peace, it feels oddly still.

She feels hampered by the fact that she's never met Aurora's parents when they were alive and that the only thing her husband has ever said about his brother is that he's, quote unquote, "an odd duck." She has no idea what kinds of rules and expectations they had for their daughter, and, though she'd never admit it, feels a bit lost.

But her niece seemed to thaw during the shopping trip, which is a good sign. No doubt, getting her into a regular routine will be the best medicine. That and time, cliché though it is.

She goes upstairs into Arnold's room, unsurprised to find that it's immaculate - and that's not even Mrs. Maitland's doing. Another mystery. How can this be the bedroom of a boy return from school so disheveled usually without the book he needs most, despite her having asked him repeatedly to double check everything before getting on the shuttle?

She continues down the hall to the second best guest room now her niece's. Someone, probably the housekeeper, has hung up all the new outfits and made the bed. The only sign that a girl resides there is a stuffed animal propped against the pillow.

Did Aurora filch it? It seems too early for her to start displaying vices like that, given that she has any in the first place. No, of course the last thing a child would do is hide something they've nicked in plain sight. The only other explanation is that Arnold leant her the stuffed animal.

Mrs. Rimmer wonders, not for the first time, why the same routine that makes one child thrive only causes another to wilt. And she still doesn't have an answer, at least not a satisfactory one.

A glance at the clock tells her that the boys will be due home in about an hour; reminding her that she really doesn't have time to stand here and ponder all day.

Then she replaces the dog on the pillow and goes out.

* * *

 _Arnold_

Mrs. Maitland clucks sympathetically, as Arnold drags himself through the door that afternoon. "So you've survived another day," she says.

"It's not over yet" he mutters, handing her his blazer, which the housekeeper will attempt to de-chalk, de-muddy and de-bloody before he heads off to school tomorrow, although they both know the cycle will only be repeated.

"True," she says. "But it's getting shorter as we speak."

"I thought you were going to quit," he says, reaching for the crackers.

"I was, but then your mother told me about your cousin coming...besides, I'd miss you, too."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't." She's stayed longer than any of the others. And he doesn't blame any of them for leaving. He only wishes he could do the same. "Where's Aurora?"

"She's around here somewhere. Your mother took her clothes shopping this morning."

He's not surprised. At least, that will put her in a good mood. His mother lives to shop, and she can only get her sons to come along if she bribes them.

"By the way, I tried to tell your mother about your brothers, but..."

"...she wouldn't listen." Arnold balls up his napkin and aims it at the bin. _If I get it in,_ he thinks _, I'll be at the head of my class by the time term's over._

It ricochets off the edge, bounces toward the refrigerator and lodges beneath, edges peeking out mockingly.

The housekeeper hides a smile. "Call me if you need anything."

Feeling both put-upon and virtuous, Arnold walks slowly into the study and takes out his things. When he looks up, Aurora has materialized and is standing in the doorway. At least, she's not going to gloat the way his brothers would in her place.

"Hi."

"Hi."

She looks different. The shopping trip must have been a success: she's dressed from head to toe in new clothes, in shades like pink and yellow, colors his mum would never consider dressing her sons in. Her hair is different, too, he doesn't know exactly how, but now, it's held away from her face. His mother, he knows, excels at taming things.

"So what are you working on?" Aurora asks.

"Oh...just maths."

He's not lying. Technically, he _is_ doing maths - he's calculating exactly how much time to allot to each unfinished subject in order to be done by dinner. True, if someone looked at his textbook, then at his notebook, they'd be hard put to find a correlation, but he is going to get started on his homework proper in just a minute. But first he has to do this; it's not procrastinating if it's meant to help the studying go smoother when he finally begins it.

He sees her eyes track back and forth, and her mind trying to make sense of it all, then he can see her deciding not to ask. She's a quick study, at least when it comes to grasping when it's best not to probe into the paradoxes of Rimmer life.

Then he hears his mother's voice. "Arnold? I hope you're getting everything you should be accomplished in there!"

"Yes, Mum," he calls back. It sounds like whatever good mood she has is slipping. Assuming she was in one in the first place. He tends to have that effect on her.

At the sound of footsteps, both children startle, but luckily it's not her.

"Aurora, I'm afraid you're going to find something else to do." Mrs. Maitland points at the door. "If she catches you in here, your aunt will have kittens."

She turns to go but then hesitates. "Er...thanks. For the dog. Do you want him back?"

"No," Arnold says after a moment, "you can keep him for now."

And even though he still has a mountain of homework to do, he feels somehow lighter.

End


	5. Chapter 5

_Aurora_

Aurora sits in the atrium outside the headmaster's study, swinging her legs because the chair is too high for her to completely reach the floor. It's her first day of school.

It's quiet here. No evidence of any kids. Like the Home.

It also smells like the Home - the odors of cleaning fluid and hot lunch being prepared mingle in a rather unpleasant way, at least if you inhale too far. But Aurora can't deny that it's nice. Nicer than her last school anyway.

Her aunt is still in there, though why she has no idea. Maybe she's assuring him that she won't be any trouble.

The door opens, and her aunt emerges, shoots her a look and then departs. Reluctantly, Aurora stands and follows the headmaster down the hall to her class. Feeling like she's in a dream or perhaps in a play, she follows him in and pretends not to notice twenty-five pairs of eyes on hers, as introductions are made.

The teacher looks at Aurora as if she's just tracked mud all over the floor. She looks back, wondering how much about her he already knows. Surely, someone has filled him in already.

" _Two_ Rimmers? Today must be my lucky day!"

Delighted at the diversion, the class snickers into their textbooks. The headmaster excuses himself.

"Right, everyone move down a seat. You'll be in front of your cousin, Miss Rimmer."

Sounds of chairs scraping and books re-thumping back down on desks. She reminds herself to breathe.

"Miss Rimmer, perhaps you'd like to tell the class a little about yourself." It's not a question.

 _Great. Why do teachers always feel the need to do this?_ Once in another lifetime, Aurora could have easily come with something dull and normal, something that wouldn't make her an object of unwanted pity, but right now, her mind is blank. Still, she manages, but as she's speaking, she hears a hissed exchange behind her in which the words "bonehead" and "smeg off," are audible. Apparently, the teacher hears it, too.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

The class swivels around. Her cousin is glaring daggers at the boy next to him and rubbing his shoulder.

Silence. Close examination of desk tops. The teacher looks back at Aurora. Maybe he's blaming her for the whole thing. Or maybe he's wishing he wasn't there either. That would make two of them.

Aurora waits for the wrath of the teacher to descend on her cousin and maybe the other boy, but he just frowns and tells them all to turn to page 35 - "because we have wasted more than enough time already."

It's not the interruption she would have preferred, but at least the spotlight is now tilted away from her.

After school, Aurora and her cousin go into the study. No one but the housekeeper is around, but neither suggests a way to avoid the inevitable.

"You were right about Mr. Truitt," she says. "But I believed you the first time."

He looks surprised.

"Do you ever see your brothers at school?" she asks, as they sit down because she's been wondering about their conspicuous absence.

Arnold shrugs. "My brothers don't really associate with me at school."

"Oh." This strikes her as mean, but for all she knows, maybe all older siblings treat their younger ones that way.

Aurora doesn't bring up what happened after she came into the classroom; she decides it's, like so much in her new home, better not to allude to it unless her cousin chooses to himself. Anyway, she senses he doesn't want her pity anymore than she would want his in the same situation. Instead she unzips her bag and starts arranging things on the table. "Why don't we start with maths, and we'll each take half the problems. You do the odds, and I'll do the evens."

Long pause. Aurora waits, mystified; it seems a straightforward way to do things.

Finally, "That's one more for me to do."

"Fine, then _I'll_ do the odds."

Her cousin waits a moment, then agrees. At least, that much is settled.

* * *

Eavesdropping on this exchange, Mrs. Rimmer backs away from the door, laughing so hard, her eyes water. Her niece is going to be all right, even if she wasn't, she doesn't have much of a choice. As for her son - well, at least he excels in the art of avoiding the lion's share of work. If he can one day manage to channel all that effort in a productive direction, imagine what might happen.

At dinner that night, her son's and Aurora's good mood has dimmed considerably, but what matters is that they've finished their homework. Mrs. Rimmer briefly wonders if she should have insisted on checking it but decides to let it go.

Instead she asks her niece how her day went.

"All right, I guess," she says in a tone that indicates the opposite. Something happened that was more than just first day jitters - Mrs. Rimmer can see that, but again decides not to pursue it, at least not now.

"Don't take it personally if he gave you a hard time," John says. "Besides, I t _old_ you he was a smeghead."

"Language," Mrs. Rimmer shoots an irritated look at her husband. Why does _she_ always have to be the disciplinarian at the dinner table? If he's not quizzing the children, he's zoning out, lost in his own thoughts. Like son, like father - except, of course, that's impossible.

"OK, then," John amends, smirking at his younger brother, "he's a bonehead."

No one disagrees with this assessment.

"I wonder what makes a man like that decide to go into teaching in the first place?" Mrs. Rimmer aims the question at her husband, but it's Arnold who answers.

"Because he likes having a captive audience?" he murmurs.

Next to him, Aurora chokes on a mouthful of roast potatoes and reaches for her water glass.

Mrs. Rimmer wants to tell her that things will get better, but she knows that in all probability, as long as Aurora is a member of this family, things will only get worse.

Instead she says, "The first day is always the hardest."

And thinks that it would be nice if only it were.

* * *

Out inspecting the garden that evening, Mrs. Rimmer knows it's him by the odor of sweat and manure before she sees him. For a moment she doesn't look up as he slides onto the bench beside her, and they sit like two strangers who just happen to be waiting for a shuttle at the same time. Finally, she speaks.

"Evening, Dennis."

"Evening, ma'am."

After what happened between them, he went back to calling her ma'am. At first, she wondered if he was doing so ironically but then decided not.

"The pond turned out well," she says. "I was thinking of putting in a fountain, if you don't think it will bother the fish."

"No," he replies after a minute, "I shouldn't think so."

It's always like this: they start out discussing the mundane and eventually work their away around to the topic they really want to discuss: their children, or rather, their child.

"How's the little girl settling in?" the gardener asks.

"Doing better, though it will take her awhile to adjust. She and Arnold seem to be getting on well," Mrs. Rimmer continues, offering him an opening, but he doesn't take it right away.

"You'll be keeping her then, I take it?"

"We're the only family she has. So there's really no other options." By now, the explanation sounds canned, but it's still the only one she has.

"How's the new schedule going?" he wants to know.

"So far, so good. Neither child has made a fuss yet. Though it's early." Mrs. Rimmer is a firm believer in not counting your chickens, etc.

"And the piano lessons?"

Mrs. Rimmer remembers in time to whom she's talking and suppresses a sigh. "Well enough." Then after a minute, "I suppose you think I'm too hard on Arnold."

"I didn't say that."

There's no reproach in his tone. But of course, that's what he means. How could it not be? And why should she feel so defensive, but she does when she gives the usual explanation.

"We can hardly allow one child to slack off," Mrs. Rimmer parrots her husband's line, "while demanding that the rest excel. I want my son - _all_ my sons - to go as far as they're capable." _Yes, that sounds trite_ , she thinks, _but nevertheless it's true._

"What does Arnold want?" her companion asks.

 _Believe me, I wish I knew_.

"He's a decent kid. Has a good heart."

"I know." Again it's not an accusation, but Mrs. Rimmer feels defensive anyway. _Yes,_ she thinks, _but_ _those qualities aren't going to get him very far. In this household - or anywhere else._

Mrs. Rimmer looks away and thinks of her three older boys whizzing through their homework, if they haven't already finished, and her youngest son who is doubtless wasting time in uniquely Arnold-like ways. She doesn't voice the question hanging between them. _Then why isn't it enough?_

End


	6. Chapter 6

_Arnold - Three weeks later_

While his mother is attempting to tease out his gift for piano, and his teachers are still mystified as to whether he has an aptitude for anything academic at all, unbeknownst to either, Arnold is developing a talent of his own: Eavesdropping. He knows, for example, how much his mother has been forced to raise the housekeeper's salary in order to persuade her to stay on and that his father isn't happy about it. It's always seemed one of the great injustices of his life that no one ever wants to test him on the things he _does_ know. If his father quizzed him on this kind of stuff, he'd ace it.

His latest attempt has so far yielded the usual queries about his school performance, but he hopes that something more juicy will eventually come up. Tucked behind the sofa, he listens to his father start what his parents called discussion, but which often strikes him as more of a quarrel.

"So how's our _son_ doing?"

Arnold knows exactly which son his father means when he uses that tone. He braces himself for his mother's reply.

"According to his teacher, quote unquote not nearly as abysmal as last term," Mrs. Rimmer says.

"And Aurora?"

"Fair."

"Well, that is truly reassuring," his father snaps. From behind the couch, their son winces.

"Dear," his mother tone oozes sarcasm, "I think what it means is that Arnold has finally brought his marks up to near average, and Aurora is doing well. He did say the same thing about John. This man doesn't praise anyone."

"Oh. And I'm supposed to be happy about all this?"

Pointed pause. "They're _eight_." It looks like his mother is finally satisfied - at least for now, but his father is determined not to be, no matter what he hears. Why is he even surprised at this anymore? He shouldn't be.

Even more pointed pause. "I'm aware of their ages." Another pause, then his father adds in a slighter softer tone, "Is Arnold still having problems with the other boys?"

"I didn't ask. Maybe. Probably."

"What about the girl?" his father asks.

"I don't know that either. If Aurora is having problems, though, we won't be able to tell. Girls are a lot more subtle when they want to give someone a hard time," Mrs. Rimmer points out.

"I suppose that's true." Then his father speaks again: "I've received the paperwork for the girl's adoption. Once we sign, there's no going back."

"I know. And I wish you wouldn't keep calling her _the girl_."

At that point, there's a shout from one of his brothers, and his mother heads out. Arnold waits until his father has vanished, too, then creeps away to tell the Aurora the news. The good news. At least, he hopes that's the way she'll see it.

"Well," is her verdict, "I'm glad, I guess. I mean, I couldn't stay in the Home forever."

"What was that like?"

"Like here - no, I mean, your home is much grander. But there are a lot of rules here, too," Aurora says.

"Was it rough being in there?" her cousin asks.

"Not really...I think I was pretty much just sleepwalking, especially, after I heard the news."

"That must have been awful," Arnold says, with Dickensian pictures in his head, but she shakes her head.

"I guess, but maybe not as awful as some people seemed to think it was. If that makes any sense. When I was at the Home, a woman took me into this room like an office and kept telling me it was all right to feel the way I did, only I had no idea what exactly that was. Does that sound weird?"

"No," he says after a moment.

"Being pitied was the worst thing about losing them, you know," Aurora tells him.

He doesn't, but he kind of does if he thinks about it. What can he possibly say that will sound comforting? Nothing, but maybe that's okay. Maybe sometimes there just isn't any right thing to say.

"Anyway, I'm glad your mother and father want me," she says. "Even though..."

 _Even though they are who they are_ , Arnold thinks. But he doesn't say that either. Instead they just sit there in silence. It's not necessary to do anything else right now. After all, there will be plenty of time for talking ahead.

* * *

 _Aurora - Three weeks later_

When morning comes, another day, Aurora still feels a twinge of disorientation but only briefly, and then it's gone, as fast as it arrived, and then it's time to get up and go to school. The boys get ready with a great deal of shouting, arguing and punching each other, but she just gets dressed, has breakfast, then gathers her things to leave.

That evening at dinner marks her first time her uncle gives her a quiz before she's allowed to eat. Suddenly being the object of his attention after so many weeks of feeling invisible flusters her, and she flubs even a question she knows perfectly well, which will make her wince every time she happens to remember it later. And what he says as she leaves the table - " _I thought you told me she was bright_ ," will also retain its sting, even after she gets used to the routine and no longer messes up. Then after a pause: " _What about you, Arnold? Are you going to disappoint me, too?"_

Later on, her aunt comes in, dressed to go out, and sure enough, tells Aurora that she and her uncle will be back around ten. Needless to say, the prospect of not running into her uncle for the rest of that day isn't unwelcome.

"The boys will be here if you need anything," her aunt tells her.

Aurora wonders if maybe she should apologize for what happened but can't quite form the words. She settles for a nod instead.

"Oh, and you can have a snack later, if you clean everything up and don't leave a mess for Mrs. Maitland tomorrow."

A reprieve of sorts. Of course, she knows what isn't being said; she's getting very good at that.

"You'll get used to your uncle," Mrs. Rimmer adds. "I know his methods may seem a little - harsh, but he really does want the best for you. We both do."

"I know...I don't know what happened this time."

"You probably just got nervous," Mrs. Rimmer says encouragingly, though her mind's mostly on the evening ahead. "You'll do better next time, you'll see."

Aurora nods. She's beginning to.

She sees that her uncle is most definitely mad, and perhaps her aunt is, too, but maybe there's a reason for what they do that she hasn't yet figured out. Still, she knows why her cousin has allied himself with the housekeeper and gardener - they're the only sane adults in this place. And they aren't even related.

And there are worse things than missing dinner. True, Aurora can't think of any at the moment, but there must be some. Anyway, it's better not to focus on what happened since she can't travel back in time and change the past.

Aurora waits until her aunt and uncle depart before she leaves her room (she's not absolutely sure if she'll be punished for venturing out), picks up the borrowed stuffed dog, then eases down the hall toward Arnold's. She knocks softly, but there's no reply, so she pushes open the door. He's not there, but she goes in anyway, then looks around for a place in which to drop it off. Then she hears a noise.

"What are you doing in here?"

He doesn't sound mad, but he does sound confused. His eyes look a little red, but then she suspects hers do, too - she'd started to cry but then made herself stop because she didn't want anyone noticing. Maybe her cousin had done the same thing for the same reason.

"I just thought I'd bring this back," Aurora says, holding out the dog. "But thanks for lending it to me."

Arnold nods. "Are you sure you don't want to keep it longer?"

She has a feeling that he needs it more than she does. Or maybe not - but it's only fair to return it since it isn't hers. "No, I'm good."

He looks at her; he knows she's lying, but maybe he shouldn't call her on it. "Father and Mother have left," he says. "So...if you want to go down and forage, feel free."

"Yes, your mum told me."

Arnold nods like that's settled, and she says goodbye to go do exactly that. As Aurora descends the stairs, she tells herself again that tonight, as mortifying as it was, doesn't necessarily have to happen again. She was just...flustered, and her aunt is right, she'll do better next time.

Still, this is an undeniably odd family she's about to be adopted into. But they're the only family she's got. And she's stuck with them.

For better or for worse.

End


End file.
